“Then why isn’t she here?” Richard asked. “Why didn’t you bring her?”
Paul hedged. “She’s with the twins—they don’t go out much yet.”
A look of disbelief, then genuine anger crossed Richard’s face. “She doesn’t know—does she?”
Paul didn’t answer.
Richard threw his hands up. “What are you trying to pull here, Paul? Do you want your children in the middle of a custody battle a few months—or years—down the line?”
“Months,” Paul said. “And no, of course not.” He looked Richard straight in the eyes. “I’ve got my reasons for doing things this way, and I am going to tell Pete and Jane, but first I want the business end of it complete.”
Richard studied Paul, taking in his haggard appearance again. “I’ll do it,” he said at last. “I just won’t like it.”
Paul smiled for the first time since he’d entered the office. “Well then, that makes two of us.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, Paul left the building and returned to his car. He sat a moment, letting the heater warm up and letting some of the stress ease from his body. He’d done it. If he died this very minute, Mark and Madison would be provided for. They’d have a mother and a father—of sorts.
He’d honored Tami’s last wish.
Paul physically felt the tension leave him, felt his shoulders relax, felt some of the pain in his gut and chest subside. He hadn’t fully realized what an enormous relief it would be.
“My to do list is getting short, Tami,” he said quietly. There were just two things left, and neither would be easy. Paul glanced at the letter on the seat beside him. He put the car in reverse and backed out of his parking space. Next stop—the post office. And then, soon, he would have to talk with Jane.
Chapter Twenty-Six
At eight o’clock Tuesday night, Jane stood outside Paul’s apartment, the Scrabble game and baby monitor in one hand and an enormous bowl of popcorn in the other. She hadn’t been able to put Tara’s plan into action last night, as Paul had come home tired and feeling unwell after his appointment. Turning sideways, Jane rang the doorbell with her elbow.
“Come in,” Paul called.
Balancing the popcorn bowl on top of the Scrabble box, Jane used her free hand to open the door. She crossed the small kitchen to Paul’s room. Looking inside the open door, she saw him sitting up in bed, a James Patterson thriller in his hand.
“I can’t believe you’re reading that,” she chided, stepping into the room. “Don’t you have enough stress in your life already?”
“Makes me feel better,” Paul said. “I may have problems, but at least I know I’m not in danger of being murdered.” He eyed the bowl in her hand as he sniffed the air. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to overdose my arteries with butter.”
“Nope.” Feeling bold, Jane walked over to the bed and sat down. “Just making sure we have enough to last for a long game of Scrabble. I’m planning to beat you soundly.”
“I really don’t feel like—”
“Uh-uh,” Jane protested, holding her hand up. “I know you don’t feel like playing. I also know—from things you’ve told me—that Tami never let you get away with moping in your bedroom. Which is exactly what you’ve done the past several days.”
Jane watched Paul’s face, trying to gauge his reaction to her playing what Tara called “the wife card.” Tara’s advice was not to be afraid of talking about Paul’s wife. In doing so, Tara assured her, Paul would see that she could move beyond that obstacle and that, intuitively, would help him do the same.
Now Jane was pleased to read mild surprise on his face. Score one for Tara.
“You’re right,” he said, setting his book facedown on the nightstand. “She wouldn’t let me stay in bed and mope. Would you rather play in the kitchen?”
Yes. But Tara tip number two was keep him in the bedroom. “No,” Jane said in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. “You can stay right where you are with your pillows to keep you comfortable. I’ve got the monitor with me.”
Paul shrugged. “Okay.” He leaned back against the headboard, and Jane passed him the popcorn and proceeded to set up the game.
“You sure you’re not expecting your sister’s kids or something?” he asked, eyeing the large bowl again before taking a handful of popcorn.
“You haven’t eaten much lately,” Jane said. “I thought the least I could do is ensure that you’re getting some fiber—since my cooking hasn’t appealed to you this week.”
Paul’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “Your cooking is great. I just thought . . .” He broke off as her eyes met his.
“What?” Jane prodded.
“Nothing.” He glanced at the game board. “Let’s play.”
Jane smoothed the comforter flat and started spreading the letter tiles out on the inside of the box lid.
“Don’t bother with that,” Paul said. “We can just draw from the bag.”
“Oh, right,” Jane said, giving him a sheepish smile. She’d planned to spread the tiles out, discreetly taking the six select letters that she’d purposely left at her end of the box. Reluctantly, she began dropping the tiles into the bag.
Paul reached over to help, picking up the rest, including the ones she’d set aside.
Now what? Jane thought. So much for seductive spelling if she didn’t get those letters. Reaching her hand into the bag, she counted seven pieces. A, M, S, Q, I, L, and K. She smiled. Four out of six wasn’t bad. With a little luck she could spell kiss me in no time.
Paul went first. “Ax. Nine—times two for double word equals eighteen points.” He leaned forward, placing his tiles.
“Ouch,” Jane said. She wrote eighteen under Paul’s column on the paper. There was still hope—if she could just get another S and an E. She drew on her next three turns, and Paul did the same.
“Ban, ten points,” Paul said, playing off his A in ax.
Jane frowned as she drew another letter.
“Not having much luck tonight, are you?” Paul asked.
“I guess that’s what I get for saying I was going to win.” Jane looked up at Paul, noting the circles under his eyes were darker than usual. “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” Jane said. “I’ll get up with the twins tonight.”
“I don’t mind taking them,” Paul said. “Truth is, I’m usually up anyway.”
“Please let me know if you need help.” Jane reached for a handful of popcorn and then remembered what Tara had said about the way she should eat. Jane suddenly felt guilty. Paul had so much to worry about that he couldn’t sleep at night, and here she was, thinking of how to get him to kiss her. You’re not the only one who will benefit, Tara’s voice came, unbidden, to her mind. Studies have shown that kissing lifts people from depression.
Jane heeded Tara’s voice in her head. Instead of shoving several pieces into her mouth at once, like she normally did, she selected one piece of popcorn from her hand and brought it slowly to her lips. “Mmm,” she murmured exaggeratedly.
“You sure you’re not the one who needs to eat?” Paul asked, giving her a funny look.
Mortified that she’d so obviously bungled the move, Jane swallowed the popcorn so fast she began to choke. She coughed several times and felt her face turning red. She brought her hands to her chest—as if that would somehow help her breathe—and inadvertently spilled the rest of her popcorn down the front of the sparkly shirt Tara had lent her.
“You want some water?” Paul reached for his cup on the nightstand, but Jane, her face even redder, shook her head, jumped off the bed and ran out of his apartment and back to her own kitchen.
Once there, she bent over the sink, alternately gagging and gulping water from the faucet. When she could finally breathe a minute or so later, she looked up to find Paul standing on the opposite side of the bar, concern on his face.
“You ok
ay?” he asked.
“Fine,” Jane croaked. But Paul was giving her a funny look, and she was surprised to see him staring at . . . her chest. She looked down and saw that the front of her neckline—aside from holding her spilled popcorn—was now soaked from the spray of the faucet. She felt her face heat with embarrassment again.
“I’ll just go change,” she said, walking quickly past him and down the hall to her bedroom. She closed the door, then slid down to the carpet, burying her face in her hands as she pulled her knees up to her chest. If Tara could see her now . . . Jane imagined the look of horror on her friend’s face when she explained how she’d ruined the evening. Jane stifled a sudden giggle. At least she had captured Paul’s attention. He’d certainly never noticed her like he had five minutes ago. She rose from the floor, found a T-shirt, a regular crew neck that was anything but romantic—“Tim’s Tree Removal” was scrawled across the front—and returned to Paul’s room.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
Jane noticed he purposely avoided looking at her shirt. She nodded and took her place at the end of the bed, silently vowing to leave the suggestive eating and Scrabble tactics to people like Tara.
“Your turn,” Paul said.
She drew the letter E. Figures. Oh well. Too late now. On her next turn she placed her E next to Paul’s B in ban.
“Be. Five points,” she said, marking her own score.
“All those letters and that’s the best you can do?” he teased.
“And going the other way it’s ex, ten,” Jane continued.
“Impressive.”
Paul’s smile was all the incentive she needed to return to Tara’s plan. She watched as he studied his letters, then finally drew another tile.
“Ant,” she said, her voice still sounding hoarse as she took her next turn.
“Uh-uh,” he protested. “Doesn’t work going the other way.” He glanced down at his tiles. “But I’ll give you those measly three points and take seventeen.” Paul picked up the x and moved it, adding several more letters. “Sextant.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I think moving letters is a little beyond cheating, but if you want to play rummy instead—” She picked up the S from the board and turned it around, facing Paul. Quickly she added KIS beside it. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed the E from be and placed her M in front of it, after the word kiss.
“So that’s what this is about,” Paul said. He sighed, then leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes.
“Yes,” Jane whispered, looking down at her lap. She pushed the Scrabble game aside and scooted closer, facing him. “Listen, Paul. I’m sorry about Thanksgiving. I know I embarrassed you. What I meant was that I like you a lot. You’re fun to be with, and maybe someday—”
“No!”
Jane’s head snapped up, and she looked at Paul with trepidation. But instead of the anger she’d expected to see, she read sorrow in his eyes and the lines on his face.
“No,” his voice was quieter—tired. “Jane I . . .” He ran his fingers over the top of his head, then quickly brought his hand down and looked at it, as if he were surprised he’d felt no hair. “I forget sometimes,” he said. “I forget that I’m bald now. I forget that I’m dying. Once in a while, I even forget about Tami, and I know I start to flirt with you—to tease a little, to have fun.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Jane said.
Paul shook his head. “There’s everything wrong with it.”
“You’re not breaking any vows,” Jane lowered her voice to a whisper. “Tami is gone.”
“So am I, Jane.” Paul leaned forward and took her hand. “It’s only a matter of time—a short matter of time before I’m gone.”
“Quit saying that,” Jane said. “You can’t give up. Mark and Madison need you. They need a father.”
Paul gave her a sad smile. “I know they need a father.” He squeezed her hand. “But I’m not going to be around to—”
“Don’t.” Jane blinked rapidly as her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t stand it when you talk that way. What happened to the man who beat the doctors’ predictions? The guy who didn’t give up?”
“He ran out of options,” Paul said, his voice solemn. “His doctors ran out of treatments, so he found a kind, beautiful woman to raise his children.”
Jane heard only the first part of his explanation. “What do you mean the doctors ran out of treatments?” With her free hand she wiped at a tear trailing down her cheek.
“I’m done,” Paul said simply. “There’s nothing left. No more radiation. No chemo. There aren’t even any experimental treatments they’d recommend.”
Stunned, Jane brought a hand to her mouth. “Nothing?” she whispered.
He shook his head.
“But your injections . . .” She recalled Paul’s hope, just a few weeks earlier, that the weekly Ethanol injections to his liver were doing their job to kill the tumors. “I thought—”
“My whole liver is a tumor,” Paul said. “There’s just too much cancer to wipe out.”
Sudden, sickening fear washed over her. Her bottom lip quivered, and her breath came in short spurts. “But you can’t just give up—they can’t . . .”
“It’s over, Jane.”
She tugged free from Paul’s grasp and buried her face in both hands, shoulders shaking as the tears came in earnest. She stayed that way several moments, sobbing. This can’t be happening. It’s not true. It’s not true. Her mind fought against the inevitable—what had slowly been becoming obvious over the past month. She cried, each tear washing away more of her hope.
After several minutes when, at last, the initial overwhelming flood subsided, she wanted to ask but couldn’t—How long?
He must have read her mind. “I don’t know how long I have. Weeks maybe—a month or two. Dr. Kline gave me some strong pain meds and the name of a good hospice for when those aren’t enough anymore. I won’t have you taking care of me at the end.” He handed her a tissue.
She took it and wiped some of the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes. “Why not?”
“Because you’ve already got two babies to care for, and they’re more important. You’d never be able to do it all. You know it, and our social worker knows it too.”
Jane didn’t say anything. He was right.
Paul held out his hand to her, palm up. She placed her fingers in his.
“You said you loved me for sharing my children with you, and I love you, Jane, for taking them—for the amazing sacrifices you’ve made already. But I can’t love you any other way. I won’t kiss you.” He glanced at the abandoned Scrabble board, the sorrow in his eyes replaced by a spark of mischievousness. “And I especially won’t have sextant with you.”
Jane sniffed loudly but couldn’t help returning his half-smile. “I should hope not since we aren’t married.”
Paul grinned. “I play a mean game of Scrabble, but you always give me a run for my money. When you weren’t coming up with any words, and you made such a careless mistake, I knew something was up.”
Jane felt her face heat with embarrassment again.
“By any chance has your crazy friend been by this week?” Paul asked.
“Yes.” Jane grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ve never been any good at flirting, and the Scrabble thing was Tara’s idea.”
“Thought so,” Paul said, nodding.
“You should have heard her first idea,” Jane said.
“No thanks. I’ll pass.” He squeezed Jane’s hand. “Listen, I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Someday, when you meet the right guy—the one who will kiss you—please don’t follow any of Tara’s advice. Just be yourself.”
“I will,” Jane said, only too happy to promise never again to try Tara’s dating tactics. “But the problem is, when I’m myself, nothing ever happens. Tara’s urging ‘to get my feet wet’ was a large part of the reason I answered your ad.”
“Then I’m grateful to Tara, but the promise still holds.” Paul’s eyes met hers.
Jane smiled at him. “Of course.” A rush of intense longing and sorrow washed over her, and she felt tears threatening again. She attempted levity to keep them at bay. “You sure you couldn’t kiss me—just once?”
He shook his head. “That privilege belongs to someone else. And someday, when you’re at that moment, when he kisses you, I don’t want you to see my face. I don’t want to be a memory that interferes.”
Jane reached out and traced her finger down Paul’s jaw line. “I’ll always remember your face,” she whispered. “I’ll see it every day for the rest of my life when I look at your children.” Her heart ached, thinking of his loss, then filled to overflowing at the thought of Mark and Madison truly being hers. Fresh tears flooded her eyes. “What a gift you’ve given me, Paul.”
And he had. But she’d hoped for so much more. In her dreams Paul recovered from both cancer and the heartbreak of losing Tami. He was healthy again, and he saw Jane as more than a nanny for his children.
It could have happened. Their friendship could have grown into love, that magic chemistry suddenly sparking between them. And she would have told Paul about the gospel, would have had the courage to read her scriptures aloud at the breakfast table instead of quietly to herself as she did every morning. Paul might have believed what he heard . . .
He might still believe. And wasn’t that even more important, now that time was so short?
Jane jumped off the bed suddenly. “I’ll be right back.”
She raced out of his apartment, back to her house, to her own bedroom. She opened her closet and took out the quadruple combination she’d been hiding there for the past few weeks. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to give it to Paul before now, but suddenly she couldn’t wait.
Clutching it in her arms, she returned to his room. “I have something for you to read that will make you feel much better than that thriller.” She nodded toward the novel on his nightstand as she stepped forward. Holding out the scriptures, she continued, “I marked some pages about what happens after our bodies leave the earth and—and eternal marriage.” A smile trembled on her lips. “I’ll always wish things could have been different between us, but since they can’t . . . Tami loved you first, and these pages will tell you how you can be with her forever.”
Counting Stars Page 16
